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Sour Grapes for the Gestapo

Mike Rader

    Weinführer Wolfgang Essenbach woke in his grave near Tours. His body had long ago decomposed but his spirit was strong. Still underground, he knew his earthly remains had “gone to grapes” many years ago.
    Essenbach, a wine merchant from Hamburg, had been dispatched to a conquered France, tasked with selecting the best vintages for Germany. The Gestapo coordinated trains so that precious barrels of the Loire Valley’s finest Chenin Blanc could travel safely to Berlin and grace the tables of the Third Reich’s leadership.
    The weinführer’s bones shifted as Essenbach’s spirit broke free from the cemetery soil, but not before sighting the vase of fresh radiant flowers by his grave. He swooped in. There was no note. He was curious.
    Below, the vines of Vouvray stretched as far as the eye could see. He spotted the Loire flowing in the distance. And on the crest of the hill was the familiar chateau where Georges Gaillard’s family had produced some of the most notable Chenin Blanc for generations. Before the War, Essenbach and Gaillard had traded together; Essenbach was even godfather to the Frenchman’s youngest son.
    Essenbach’s spirit entered through the chateau’s cellar door. He knew the way blindfolded. Up the old stairs, through the vast kitchen and on, up to the Frenchman’s study.
    The old Frenchman was there, totting up a column of figures.
    The air stirred and he looked up.
    “Is anyone there?” he whispered hoarsely.
    “Georges, it is me,” Essenbach announced himself.
    The Frenchman washed a feeble hand over his face. “Wolfgang, you are dead.”
    “I am here, mon ami. The flowers at the grave, I presume, were from you?”
    Gaillard nodded. “Of course.” His gaze probed the space around him. “I can hear your voice, Wolfgang, but where are you?”
    The German’s spirit rushed on. There were so many questions. “Georges, tell me, who killed me? Who buried me in the cemetery?”
    “The Gestapo, my old friend. They blamed you for the poor vintage sent in 1943. I told them it was not your fault, some other growers had made a substitution, but they went looking for you.”
     “They found me. They accused me of theft.”
     Gaillard struggled to his feet. He stretched a hand in the direction of the voice. “Wolfgang, it was all a terrible mistake. Your death was devastating.”
     “And my family? They were here with me. Where are they?”
     The old Frenchman shrugged. “The Gestapo took them, and some of my best workers. They were sent into forced labor. But,” a faint smile crept over his face, “we set matters right.”
    Gaillard scooped up a ring of keys and his walking stick. Hobbling from the chateau with his unseen companion, he made his way to where an ancient door opened into the hillside. Essenbach had been there a thousand times in his crisp German uniform. The best Chenin Blanc vintages were locked away within those cool dry caves.
    As they entered, the Frenchman took one of the lamps burning on the wall. He smiled at his ghostly companion. “You may not need a light to see where you’re going, but I do.”
    They passed between the racks of bottles and massive barrels.
    “Just as I last saw them,” Essenbach commented.
    “And some wonderful vintages since then,” Gaillard assured his friend. “I have named one of them in your honor.”
    Wolfgang Essenbach read his name chalked onto a series of barrels.
    Coming to a shadowy recess, Gaillard unlocked a heavy door. “Inside here, my old friend, I have preserved some of our Gestapo colleagues...”
    There, dangling on hooks from the cave roof, were skeletons in the rotted remains of their once-dreaded uniforms. “Do you remember the worst of them? Kleinman? We saved a special treatment for him. The worst vintage we could find...”
    Gaillard pointed to a large open barrel in the corner. Essenbach’s spirit peered in, saw how the body of a Gestapo major had been folded into the barrel and drowned in the poor quality liquid. Kleinman’s rimless spectacles were still perched on his nose, his eyes still bulging with shock.
    “A particularly nasty fate which he entirely deserved,” Gaillard commented. “And now, Wolfgang, let me welcome you home.” An ancient bottle stood on a barrel beside two glasses. “I had always hoped that one day we could meet again.”
    Removing the cork, Gaillard poured two glasses. He raised one. The other appeared to raise itself into thin air.
    “To the future, dear old friend. Welcome home.”

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